Cold wind sneaks down Ninth; I shove my hands into jacket pockets, shoulders instinctively bracing. “There was a time I thought chaos was a lifestyle requirement. Rehab tore that poster off the wall.”
We pause by a subway grate blowing radiator breath into the night. Nora faces me, brow creased in curious sympathy.
“I hurt people,” I blurt, voice too loud. I clear my throat, start again softer. “Back when chaos was the brand—I wasn’t just trashing hotel rooms. I trashed trust.”
Her gaze finds me—steady, patient—but doesn’t try to smooth the confession.
“I used to think everything was owed to me because I’d survived shitty bars and sleeping in vans,” I continue. “So if a tour manager pulled eighteen-hour days, that was ‘the job.’ If Lucas missed his sister’s wedding for a festival slot I demanded, well, that was ‘the gig.’ I took loyalty like it was air.”
“I dated people knowing I’d disappear the next morning,” I add, jaw tightening. “Promised nothing, gave even less, and still managed to leave dents. You don’t have to lie to break someone—you just have to be selfish long enough.”
Nora shifts, not away but closer, her hand brushing mine. The touch loosens the knot in my chest just enough to keep talking.
“Rehab made me sober, but the twelve-step amends list? That’s the part that gutted me. Calling my mother, hearing her pause because shewas bracing for bad news. Listening to Lucas say, ‘Man, I love you, but I didn’t know if you loved anyone.’” I scrub a hand over my face. “You can’t blame pills for that. That was me being an asshole.”
Silence stretches. I half expect judgment, maybe gentle consolation, but she gives me neither: just presence. It’s strangely more forgiving than words.
“I’m terrified I’ll slip,” I admit, softer now. “Not back to pills—back to thinking my needs outrank everyone else’s. Sometimes the stage lights flip on and I feel that old version of me stretching, looking for a crack.”
Nora folds her hand over mine, her palm cool and firm. “You’re not that man now,” she says, certainty threading each syllable.
I shake my head. “It’s true, but it doesn’t headline well. Chaos and selfish rockstars are a better sell.”
Nora’s voice gentles, but her eyes spark. “If that old selfish reflex tries to crawl back, I’ll slap it straight out of you.”
I huff a real laugh this time, tension easing from my shoulders. I’m still learning that redemption isn’t a finish line—more like a series of small, stubborn choices. If I keep choosing right, maybe the dents I left in people’s hearts start to smooth, one repaired trust at a time.
I glance at her. “Speaking of small choices… are you ready for our final fake date?”
Her brows lift. “Final?”
“Third and final,” I say, trying for lightness. “Gavin suggested something more ‘intimate’ this time. So I thought… my place. Unless that’s too weird.”
Nora studies me for a beat, then nods. “Your place sounds good.”
Something flickers in my chest—hope or danger, I’m not sure.
“Well then,” I say, forcing a grin. “One more date, and you’ll be rid of me for good.”
She doesn’t laugh. Just looks at me a little too long, like she’s deciding whether she actually wants that.
13
NORA
Kissing Max Donovan
Istep out of the private elevator and down the short hallway to Max’s front door, half expecting noise, chaos—maybe a shrine of platinum records and tangled guitar cables. Instead, when he opens the door, I’m met with soft jazz, warm afternoon light, and a space that feels… calm. Polished marble floors glow beneath the sun, and everything smells faintly of cedar and something citrusy.
The living room feels… lived-in. A half-finished mug of coffee sits on a stack of music theory books, a blanket slouches over the back of a leather sofa, and—front-and-center—a tiny tortoiseshell kitten is doing an enthusiastic bunny-kick on a catnip mouse.
“Welcome to Casa Chaos,” Max says. He’s barefoot, jeans low on his hips, black T-shirt soft with age. The domestic version of him is almost disarming—like backstage footage no one was supposed to see.
He nudges a woven basket across the entryway with his bare foot.
“House rule: fluffy socks,” he says, fishing out a brand-new pair printed with tiny books and guitars. “Full disclosure—Vivienne picked the patterns. She thinks guests appreciateoptions.”
I laugh, slipping off my boots. The marble is cool under my toes, but the moment the socks are on, warmth spreads up my calves. Small thing, huge difference. He pulls on a mismatched set—one sock stamped with cartoon kittens, the other solid black. When I raise an eyebrow he shrugs. “Laundry roulette.”
